Spectator Life

Can anyone name the actors in the new Alien: Romulus movie? No, me neither. Which seems odd for such a massive franchise, but then I struggle to name a single film star under the age of about 35, and I consider myself a movie buff. As is often the case with the release of a new sequel, I returned to the original for reappraisal. Yes, Ridley Scott’s masterwork is still frightening and expertly paced, but what makes the film exceptional is the diversity of the acting talent. And by diverse, I don’t mean the sort of DEI casting-by-numbers that turns every movie into a shiny Benetton commercial. No, I mean that in the 1979 original, we witness the full gamut of acting talent available at the time.

As I have been driving across England’s green and pleasant land visiting friends and family this summer, I discovered that the UK’s phone signal is really, really terrible. I expected poor connectivity on coastal paths in Cornwall, but everywhere I went I experienced problems: network dropouts as I tried to navigate the M1, recurrent outages as I tried to work remotely from Sussex, endless loading and buffering screens (even though my phone promised me 4G) regardless of whether I was in London or the Lake District. The signal in a friend’s home in south east London is so terrible you would think we were trying to beam through the Great Pyramid of Giza. I have had more reliable phone service on safari in Tanzania than I have on Great Western Rail.

In January 2022, the New York Times ran a piece that declared that smoking was back, quoting Martin Amis’s daughter saying it seemed like it was. In the summer of 2023, the Guardian ran a piece that declared that smoking was back, because Lily-Rose Depp looks great when smoking. Last month, the Guardian again ran a piece that declared that smoking was back, because Dua Lipa smokes and Charli XCX pretends to.  Smoking between 35 and 60, however, is really very dangerous But it isn’t back, and there’s stats to prove it. However, what those pieces do say is that smoking retains its ‘cool’ image. We know that. Kate Moss and James Dean knew that.

For most parents whose teenage years pre-dated Snapchat, Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram, few things are as terrifying as the social media use of their children. What might seem like harmless fun, such as posting memes, sharing photos, or venting frustrations, can have life-changing consequences. As a barrister who represents students, I have seen how a single ill-judged post can ruin a young person’s future. In one memorable case, a pupil was expelled from secondary school for using the phrase ‘deez nuts’ with a classmate In one memorable case, a pupil was expelled from secondary school for using the phrase ‘deez nuts’ with a classmate. The male pupil had meant it as a joke, but the female pupil found it offensive and reported it to the headmaster.

Last week, the London restaurant St John opened reservations for a celebration of its 30th birthday. For much of September, the Smithfield restaurant will bring back its 1994 menu at 1994 prices. Tables were snatched up within minutes, possibly seconds. I sat at my computer refreshing the OpenTable booking site like a monkey at a slot machine and got nothing but a manic adrenaline rush that ruined my morning. I’ve seen the algorithm create Soviet breadlines overnight Please, reader, don’t pity me – it was, of course, just a minor inconvenience. What does wind me up is the principle: fun now has to be meticulously planned and booked weeks in advance.

The former England football manager Sven-Goran Eriksson died today. He had terminal cancer and said he expected to be dead before the year was out. In an age when such grim diagnoses are usually kept private until their morbid predictions have come to pass, it was characteristically candid of the 76-year-old Swede, even though doing so invited a fresh round of media scrutiny of a life that has already been scrutinised intensively over many years. He treated players as grown-ups, even though they often weren’t. Any England football manager gets attention – it comes with the territory.

We’re approaching the home straight at the Proms. There are three weeks to go at the world’s greatest festival of music, and Prommers are counting down the days until the famous orchestras of Berlin, Munich and Prague reach the Royal Albert Hall. The friendly foreign invasion has become the traditional climax to eight weeks of music-making. It’s been a better season in the hall than the one which appeared on paper, though the opening night was vin ordinaire. Clara Schumann’s pretty piano concerto turned out to be pretty dull. It’s not a piece that should open a festival of this pedigree. The pianist was a poor choice, too, but we shall come to Isata Kanneh-Mason anon.